The Little Mexican
First published October 2013
True story: at a book show a number of years ago in the Fort Worth Convention Center where I and many other book dealers had booths set up in the hopes of making a few modest sales and trades, there was a bit of a commotion on the third day of the show, Sunday.
Sometime about mid-morning a local television crew swept through the show's labyrinth of aisles with a small, excited coterie trailing behind. At the time I couldn't leave my booth unattended to follow them, but about an hour later, after the entourage had departed, I was able to break free and go to the proprietor's booth to inquire what the all the fuss had been about. As it happened, there were still a few people milling about the counter, including one rather short man, clearly of Mexican heritage. They were all gawking at a very old sepia-toned photograph. I asked the dealer (whose wares were primarily Texana ephemera) who the soldier in the photograph was. He said it was one of only five known actual photographs of Santa Anna himself.
"Wow," I said, trying not to show off my extensive vocabulary and powers of description, "how'd you happen to come by it?"
He said he bought it on eBay for $10 from a guy somewhere in Texas (I forget where) who had been cleaning out his attic, found it, had no idea who it was, and thought he'd pick up a couple of extra dollars by selling it at auction on eBay.
"How much is it worth?" I asked. The dealer smiled at the little group around me, as if he and they were all in on a private joke of which I was obviously not aware.
"Fair market value?" he said. "About $75,000."
He and the others chortled . . . well, except for the little Mexican. He, the Mexican, simply turned and walked away, and the others peeled away too, one by one, over the next few minutes. The photograph remained on the glass top counter, Santa Anna silently, proudly-- defiantly --looking up through time at the dealer and me.
"Too bad," the dealer said after a moment.
"Why's that?" I asked. The dealer slid a fairly plain business card across the counter for me to examine. The name "Paul Santa Anna" was printed in bold black, along with his contact information, on an unassuming background of eggshell white. "That," he said, indicating the little Mexican who had just walked off, "was Santa Anna's great, great grandson Paul. No chance in hell he'll ever be able to own this photograph. All he could do was look at it. Too bad.”
Too bad indeed.
